The day after the wedding, Sofy awoke in her husband’s bed and gazed at the ceiling. The bedchambers were enormous, and the bed wide. Its posts were decorated with sprigs of local herb, in the Larosan custom, and the sheets smelled of lavender. Her nightgown was silver lace, a scandalous thing that a year ago, a virgin girl, she might have giggled to behold. Morning sunlight fell across the wide flagstone floor, the carpets and wall hangings, the rich chairs, the cabinets, the breakfast table. Balthaar’s shield, emblazoned with the Arosh coat of arms-a beast Balthaar had told her was called a griffin, and crossed lances. The mounted head of a buck he had once killed.
A bell hung from a stand by the bedside, awaiting her tinkle. Sofy refrained, wondering that her husband should have awakened so early, and left her in bed alone on her first morning as a wedded woman. Perhaps she’d made a mess of things already. Perhaps she’d been wrong. In the haze of the newly awakened, she wasn’t certain of anything. It did not feel different, to be married. Perhaps she had been a fool to expect otherwise.
She recalled Sasha telling her of the first morning after her first battle. She’d killed a Cherrovan warrior in that battle, and had become a blooded warrior herself. In the Goeren-yai tradition, such an occasion was worthy of grim celebration, recognition not only of triumph and honour, but of duties fulfilled and responsibilities acquired. A warrior’s honour was the foundation of Lenay society, and Sasha had expected to awaken the next morning feeling something, for good or ill. And yet, the sun had looked the same as it rose above the rugged Lenay hills, and the air had smelled as it always had, and Sasha was still Sasha; perhaps a little wiser, but no more than that. Relief, Sasha had said. That had been her main emotion. To have finally gotten it out of the way. Sofy thought she could empathise with that now.
She held up her right hand to examine the great, golden ring on her fourth finger. It held an emerald jewel, large and sparkling. In the Bacosh, green was the colour of royalty, and riches, and power. It felt odd upon her finger, cold and hard. It was going to distract her attention now, every time she used her right hand. Something about the thought annoyed her.
Thinking of Sasha annoyed her.
Sasha had sworn to be there, had sworn as though she would move heaven and earth to attend her little sister’s wedding. Sofy had told her at the time that she should not promise that which she had no guarantee of delivering, yet a part of her had believed all the same. It had been a little girl’s foolishness, believing her big sister could walk on water, and turn ale into honey at the wave of a hand. Now, she knew she had been silly, yet she felt annoyed at Sasha all the same. Betrayed, in fact, in her own small, petty, immature way.
Gods, she thought glumly. Perhaps I truly am cut out to be a spoiled, vain little princess after all.
She reached, and tinkled the bell. Ten maids entered the chambers in the blink of an eye, with trays for the breakfast table, new wood for the fireplace, and great, steaming jugs of water for her morning bath. Ten maids became twenty, and Sofy sat up, feeling slightly ridiculous in her lacy nightgown.
“Would Your Highness take her breakfast now?” asked the senior maid. “Or would she prefer to take breakfast with her bath?”
It sounded a little too decadent even for a princess of the Bacosh. “Breakfast first, if you please,” said Sofy. And, spotting her Lenay girls amidst the others, “Hello Jeleny, hello Rhyana! Did you have a nice time last night?”
The girls paused, giving slightly pale looks at the head maid. Sofy frowned, abruptly understanding.
“I do recall stating that my Lenay handmaidens should take instruction only from me,” she said coolly.
The head maid bowed. “Your Highness, these are the Larosan Royal quarters, and there are certain standards to which the Prince is accustomed in his chambers….”
“I shall speak with him,” Sofy said firmly. “Please, my girls, I will not have such stifling formality that you must ask permission before speaking with me.”
“Of course, Highness,” said Jeleny, finishing laying the table, and hurrying off. The senior maid continued about her business, expressionless. Clearly the old witch had frightened them. Well, Balthaar was occasionally short with the servants, and these were his chambers more than hers. Another annoyance on a very surreal morning.
“Someone fetch Yasmyn for me,” she requested, standing to slip into the robe one girl held ready.
When Yasmyn arrived, the senior maid glowered at her, for Yasmyn wore only a scarlet morning gown, her hair still mussed from bed, her eyes squinted in the manner of one recovering from a heavy night.
“Some spiced tea for the noble Isfayen!” Sofy requested of the maids, as Yasmyn shuffled to the opposing chair and slumped. Headache or not, Yasmyn was smiling. “You look rather like the cat that got the milk, and was then beaten with the bowl,” Sofy observed.
“A good wedding,” said Yasmyn thickly. Tea arrived, and she took it, sipping deeply.
“Great Lord Faras will not have a new grandchild in nine months?” Sofy wondered.
Yasmyn grinned. “It was not that good a wedding,” she said. “And what of the Regent Arosh?”
Sofy sighed. She glanced about, but most of the maids had gone, or were clustered by the far wardrobe chamber, arranging the princess’s dress for the day. Yasmyn peered more closely. Sofy shook her head.
“He is not an ugly man,” Yasmyn pointed out. “Or did you take the powder?”
“No, nothing like that,” Sofy said tiredly. They spoke Lenay, though Sofy did not think that all the Larosan maids would be deaf to it. Surely the regent had spies. “It’s just-”
“He could not perform? Oh the scandal!”
“Don’t be crude, Yasmyn. I’m sure he could…perform.”
“Did you not wish him to?”
Sofy opened her mouth to reply, then cut herself off. Exhaled hard. “We discussed matters. He was…kind. I…he…” Sofy took another breath. “We had argued. About the war, the serrin…I had asked him what he meant to do, or what his father meant to do, once his forces had invaded the Saalshen Bacosh.”
Yasmyn looked very serious. It was clear she thought her princess had done a dangerous and possibly foolhardy thing.
“What did he say?”
“Oh, Yasmyn,” Sofy scolded, keeping her tone light. “I’m not a fool, I didn’t question the war itself. I merely expressed the opinion that I should not like to see every city and village burned to the ground. He thought it showed a soft heart, I think he found it sweet. But I did remind him that my sister is Nasi-Keth, and that surely not all serrin teachings are evil….”
“Oh, Sofy,” Yasmyn muttered.
“…but he did not take it badly!” Sofy insisted. “He…we argued, and he was, well, condescending…” and her tone became a little dry. “But he was not upset. He merely suggested, after the wedding, that perhaps if I did not wish it so soon, that we should not make love until I felt that I truly wanted to.” Yasmyn looked very unhappy. “I thought he was being sweet!”
“You did not consummate the marriage,” Yasmyn retorted. “If anyone should find out…”
“What, you think it could be annulled?”
“No, worse. People will make rumours, and tell nasty tales, and you will be trapped in something hostile and dangerous. With all the suspicion between Lenays and lowlanders, our peoples do not need such a marriage. You make life dangerous for everyone.”
Sofy gazed at her breakfast, no longer feeling hungry. Yasmyn finished her tea, and grasped her princess’s hand.
“Sofy. No more weak little girl. You’re lucky he is handsome, and nice to you. But even were he ugly and a brute, you’d still have to fuck him.” Sofy rolled her eyes, but Yasmyn did not let go of her hand. “It’s not so bad as dying in battle. I think it’s much easier than a morning’s hard work on a farm. It is your one royal hardship. Close your eyes if you must, but you must get it done.” She leaned closer. “It’s not Jaryd, is it?” she whispered.
“No! I know my duty, Yasmyn, and gods know he’s bedded so many women that I’ve not the least problem with evening that score a little.”
“And why would that matter to you if your head was not still full of Jaryd?”
“As though you can talk!” Sofy retorted. “You’re the one who thought it such a wonderful idea to accept Jaryd into my staff in the first place!”
“In Isfayen,” Yasmyn replied, “a woman can love one man, and fuck another. One is recreation. The other is duty.”
Sofy paused to recover her hand and her temper. “I can too,” she said firmly. “And I will. I don’t love him anyway.”
Yasmyn just looked at her.
Following the wedding, there was the tournament. With all grand weddings came grand tournaments, and this tournament promised to be the most grand in a generation. All the warriors were gathered, all the provinces of the “free Bacosh” com together with common purpose, for the first time in many years. Sofy rode with Princess Elora and several ladies-in-waiting. Sitting in the open-top carriage, with Larosan knights for escort, she had never felt so self-conscious. Cityfolk waved as the carriage passed, and called good wishes, and Sofy waved back.
All the lands before the Sherdaine walls, for as far as the eye could see, were covered with tents and campsites. Beyond the camp, atop a pretty hillside, rose Jacquey Castle. The tournament adorned the hillside like a jewelled necklace, a colourful profusion of stands, tents, stalls and yards. There was commotion as Sofy’s carriage arrived, trumpeters scurrying to form a line, and knights ahorse to make an honour guard. These, Sofy was informed by a lord from Algrasse as she walked with Princess Elora down the line, were champions from across the free Bacosh. Everyone seemed excited to see how they performed against each other, in this rare peaceful gathering.
The tournament was intriguing. Sofy sat in the royal box in a wooden stand, with the regent, Princess Elora, a number of older lords now too grey to compete, and various ladies-in-waiting. Before them, a strip of grass had a rail down its centre, and mounted knights would charge each other, and attempt to break their light lances upon the other’s shield or armour. Sofy did not think it much of a test of skill, for surely it was luck as much as anything…but her neighbours in the box sharply disagreed, and gossiped intently on the merits of various knights, techniques, styles of armour and horses. In the broader crowds surrounding the jousting strip, Sofy could see gambling, men with pouches of coin declaring their price, and taking bets by scribbling marks on parchment. She would have enjoyed the spectacle far more if she’d known where her new husband was. It was poor form for a man to compete in his own wedding tournament, so he was not being fitted into his armour, at least.
Dafed-Balthaar and Elora’s brother-did particularly well in several passes, and was honoured with the colours of Lady Emore Turen, a daughter of one of Tournea’s senior lords, and a dazzling beauty. All seemed greatly pleased at that, for tensions between Tournea and Larosa were never far from the surface. Sofy was then treated to a long gossip between Elora and several other ladies as to the prospects of Dafed’s marriage to Family Turen…only that might risk war between Turen and Family Rigard, whose Lord Arjon was currently Lord of Tournea. The ease with which Bacosh-folk spoke of war astonished Sofy.
In Lenayin, war was serious, and fought over honour, insult or injury. In the Bacosh, it seemed a matter of formality and procedure, as regular as the seasons. Even now, she learned, many of the tournament’s participant families were technically in a state of war. Bacosh wars did not seem so devastating as Lenay wars, however. Captured knights were ransomed, and while villages frequently swapped sides as feudal territories were rearranged, they were rarely slaughtered outright. Once, Sofy might have thought the Bacosh method more greatly civilised. But now, as she sat and watched the splendid knights charging in their gleaming armour, she wondered if the relative civility of Bacosh wars had caused the Bacosh people to come to love war too much.
There were no Lenays in the joust, Sofy was pleased to see. With no experience at this kind of warfare, it would not have been a good showing for her countrymen. However, there were Lenay-style swordwork contests elsewhere in the tournament grounds, she was told.
After several hours seated, she nded to stretch her legs. When one was princess regent, she discovered, one did not simply go for a stroll. By the time she was free of the stands and walking amidst the crowds, she had an escort of eight knights, a herald, Princess Elora, four ladies-in-waiting, and two servants. The crowds stared as the procession passed, and Elora chatted to her on the endless fascination of the Bacosh nobility-families, weddings, children, lines of succession and who was feuding with whom. Sofy had known it was complicated, but now she was beginning to feel dizzy. For the first time, she found herself wondering what would happen to her new family if the Enoran, Rhodaani and Ilduuri Steel held firm in the battles ahead. Almost certainly, she suspected, the regency would fall, and other families would begin fighting for the title. The boundaries of the Bacosh provinces would shift, and whether she or any of Family Arosh would still be alive at the end of it, she did not know.
The Lenay sword contests, which attracted nearly as large a crowd as the jousts, were held within a series of wide circles fenced for the occasion. Sofy stayed long enough to see several invited Bacosh knights, in padded bandas instead of clamshell armour, soundly defeated in flashing exchanges of wooden blades. Some of her female entourage ceased their excited gushing about the valiance of the knights, and began asking admiring questions of various Lenay warriors. All were astonished to learn that Sofy had no clue as to the identity of most of them, as they were not renowned nobles, but poor farmers or villagers from across Lenayin. Most were greatly discomforted when one such Goeren-yai farmer knocked a genuine noble lord to the ground…and astonished further that the nobleman’s only reply was to grin, and acknowledge his opponent’s superior move. Soon enough there were no more Bacosh knights contesting within the tachadar circles, and Sofy’s contingent began to wonder loudly what was happening back at the jousts.
For lunch, the noble entourage was escorted back to Castle Jacquey, where a long table had been set in a grand hall. Still there was no sign of Balthaar. It took Yasmyn’s approach, as Sofy sat to entree, to solve that mystery.
“He’s in the high study,” Yasmyn said over Sofy’s shoulder in Lenay, as others frowned at the intrusion. “There is a gathering of Bacosh lords there. I think they argue.”
“Over what?”
“These are men who love their tournaments. There is only one thing they love more.” And when Sofy frowned, Yasmyn added, “War,” clearly thinking her princess a little slow.
Sofy put her napkin on the table crossly, and stood up. “Sister dearest,” said Elora in surprise, “does something bother you?”
“Yes something bothers me,” Sofy declared. “I am a newly wedded woman, and I have not been attended by my husband all day. If he shall not attend to me, then I shall attend to him,” she said, and left.
Knights scrambled from the table to pursue her, as the ladies looked at each other, astonished at the ill-decorum of it all.
“And where have you been all morning?” Sofy asked Yasmyn.
“Saving a marriage,” Yasmyn said grimly. “It is not well that your husband should ignore you all day. If he were my husband, and he were in the wrong, I would strike him.”
“And if you were in the wrong?”
“Suck him.” Sofy blinked. “If you will not fuck him, you may consider it.”
“Good lords, Yasmyn,” Sofy muttered. “I’ve never had a friend quite so exasperating as you. Not even Sasha.”
“I say what needs to be said.”
The guards at the study doors did not prevent the princess regent from entering. Within, she found a room of tables, shelves and books, lit only by some narrow windows overlooking the tournament. There was nothing of calm discussion within, but rather a collection of lords in raiments and house colours, seated or standing in various small groups, arguing with animation. They barely looked at Sofy as she entered, Yasmyn at her side, and searched for her husband.
Balthaar sat at the table’s end, head in hands, as several lords shouted and pointed fingers across him. He saw Sofy, and straightened, astonished. He climbed to his feet.
“My sweet,” he said, taking her hands and kissing them. “You must forgive me, I have been a dreadful husband. Trust me that I should have rather been at your side than here, yet my duties have forbidden it.”
Balthaar loved to ride, hunt and tourney. The study was gloomy, and he had looked bored as sin when Sofy entered. Her heart softened. “And what is this?” she asked.
“We discuss the order of battle. There is so much history in this room, families and feuds and old wars. There is great honour to marching one’s standard at the vanguard of war. We contest for a place of prestige upon the field, and seek not to march upon the flank of some old foe. I fear it could take all day, and perhaps much of tomorrow.” He kissed her hand once more. “Go back to the tourney, my sweet. This is not a matter for you.”
“On the contrary,” Sofy insisted. “I have heard little else besides such matters on the ride to Larosa. Lenayin knows as much of petty bloodfeuds as the Bacosh, I fear, yet we have seen them all resolved to this point. I am certain I can help.”
“Your father and brother allowed your assistance to mediate between the Lenay provinces?”
“But of course,” said Sofy. Koenyg was not so hard headed as to ignore his youngest sister’s persuasive powers. He had coached her, of course, but where offers of possible marriages and royal gifts were concerned to seal an agreement, all knew that such things were far more readily accepted from her mouth than her brothers’ or father’s. And she recalled Myklas saying with affection, after she had persuaded Lord Iraskyn of Yethulyn to allow his son’s standing unit, the Silver Eagles, to hold a rather less glamorous position on the inside flank, that he had no idea how they would run the kingdom without her. “Please, Balthaar, let me help,” she continued. “It does not look good for the new princess regent to wander the tourney without her husband. I may not be able to wield a sword in our partnership, but I can certainly use my tongue.”
Balthaar smiled at her. “One notices. As you will, then. Here, I shall fill you in on the details.”
She had most of it resolved by midafternoon. Balthaar was not the only man impressed. All kissed her hand upon departing, and many bowed low.ofy wondered how any of these fools, in the Bacosh or Lenayin, got anything done without her. Men blustered, made threats and were easily upset. She soothed their egos, made gentle flattery, and found the happy turn of every dark assignment. When that did not work, she bribed, but not crudely. Whatever the worst opinions of commonfolk and gossips, most noblemen in her experience did not desire simply wealth and power-it was rather status, and respect, that drove their craving for gold.
Following the night’s banquet, Balthaar joined Sofy in their chambers, and dismissed the maids. He clasped her hands as they stood warm before the crackling fireplace, and Sofy’s heart beat faster.
“You are not certain of this war,” he said to her, softly. “Why then did you help today?”
For a long moment, Sofy did not know what to say. “The Bacosh is a grand place,” she said at last. “I am the princess regent. I should try to do good while I have the opportunity. I see Lenays and Larosans sharing each other’s cultures, forging friendships. Surely it cannot be a bad thing.”
She said it firmly enough that she nearly believed it. Her instinct had always been to bring people together. She had never liked conflict. Peace between peoples was always good. She could make something good come of it, she was increasingly certain.
“I would like for many other things to be closer too,” said Balthaar. He kissed her. Sofy thought it rather nice, and let him. He took her to the bed, and began removing her clothes. They made love, and Sofy thought that rather nice too. He seemed rather taken with her, and was ever so gentle. Too gentle, almost, when her own passion took her. As Yasmyn had said, he was a handsome man, and if this were her heaviest royal burden, then it was not a hard one to bear.
Later, she lay in his arms, and gazed at the fireplace. Now she felt different, as though married life had truly begun. Yasmyn would be pleased, she thought, and found herself smiling. And she’d only thought of Jaryd three or four times.
Or maybe five.
Elesther Road was in chaos. The Steel made formations across some alley exits, and cavalry clattered along the cobbles, but the riot continued. Bodies lay unclaimed in the street. Others hung from windows, tied at the neck with rope. The Civid Sein had been this way, and the revenge was spreading.
Lieutenant Raine rode at Rhillian’s side, in full armour. Country folk watched them pass, roughly dressed and bearing all kind of rustic weapons. They roamed Elesther, near the Tol’rhen, and were working toward the Justiciary, while the Steel tried to keep armed mobs apart, with limited success.
“There’s too many of them,” Lieutenant Raine said darkly. “Hundreds more are pouring in every day. They make camp in the courtyards, and the homes of fled or murdered nobility. I need only a word, and I shall drive them back to the farms and villages from which they came.”
“I cannot,” Rhillian said. “Not until the Lady Renine and Alfriedo have been recaptured.” The last was most galling; she had not expected so daring an assault upon the Mahl’rhen itself. Five serrin were dead, a friend amongst them, and the young Lord Alfriedo missing. Still, from the broader perspective, she was not too concerned. “This violence is thework of the feudalists. They were warned of the country folk’s waning patience, and now they see the truth of it.”
“M’Lady,” said the lieutenant, “I am losing men to desertion. You know the Steel, you know the family that we are. The Steel never desert. Or rarely. But now I have noble-born enlisted and officers alike disappearing to see to their families, and I cannot in all honesty say that I blame them.”
Rhillian repressed a grimace and looked across the street. A door had been caved in, and several Steel were rounding up looters, beating them with little mercy. Tracato, most civil and orderly of all human cities, was falling apart.
“Council sits today,” she said. “What think the captains?”
“Council,” Lieutenant Raine snorted. “That word used to mean something. These men are not elected….”
“Neither were most of the old Council, in fairness.”
“But at least there was an appearance,” said Raine. “A pretence, no matter how they bought or bribed their way in. A Council without half its elected members, with all the nobility stripped away and replaced with Civid Sein cronies, is no Council at all worth the name.”
“Yet the Steel are sworn to obey the Council,” Rhillian said. “Will the captains do so? Captain Hauser does not give me a straight answer.”
Raine’s expression was bleak. His eyes lingered on a body, face down on the cobbles in a pool of dried blood. “I’m a country lad myself,” he said, “but I’d cut these Civid Sein scum down like vermin given the nod. This is not civilisation, M’Lady, this is rule of the mob, and I like it not. Nor do a majority of country folk, I believe, nor a majority of the Steel. I’ll not follow the orders of such people who now comprise the Council. But of course, I cannot speak for the captains.”
“If not the Council, then who?”
“M’Lady, I would follow you. I believe most of the dharmi feel the same. The feudalists are traitors, and the Civid Sein are a barbarian lynch mob. You walk the path between, and are not concerned with factions. I believe that is exactly what Rhodaan needs.”
“Lieutenant, you surprise me. Here I’d thought any expression of solidarity from a human would come with expressions of love and loyalty.”
“My father once told me that if you filled up all the goodness ever done by the promises of councilmen, philosophers, lords and priests in your left hand, while shitting in your right, the right hand will be full much faster. I’ll follow you precisely because you don’t ask me to love you.”
Rhillian looked at the young lieutenant for a long moment, then nodded. “I cannot in good conscience even ask you to trust me,” she added. “Most of what I do here, I do not like, and much ill will be done before I am through.”
“It was falling apart already, with what the feudalists were trying. There was little choice.”
“I cannot move against the Civid Sein just yet, Lieutenant, whatever horrors they should perform in the meantime. of coursesoon, I promise.”
In the grand courtyard before the Tol’rhen, usually filled with factional and philosophical debate, there now camped a ragged army. There were many carts, mules and horses, amidst which country folk made makeshift camps. The smoke of cookfires filled the air, and an endless commotion of voices, animals, and from some quarters, shouted speeches.
Rhillian paused on the Elesther steps with Aisha to survey it all, and the Nasi-Keth who wandered through it, some talking and friendly with the new arrivals, others wary. She then pressed on through the main doors, guarded by Nasi-Keth, and into the dining hall. Here, familiar rowed benches had been rearranged crosswise, and crowded with people-perhaps half Nasi-Keth, and the other half not. At the far end, before the kitchens, a stage had been raised. Even above the roaring of the crowd, Rhillian could hear the booming voice of the speaker, in his black Tol’rhen robes. Only one man in the Tol’rhen possessed such a voice, and could rouse such a ruckus.
Rhillian made her way down the side of the hall, Lieutenant Raine at her back. “…and I say that we shall do unto them as they have done to us!” Ulenshaal Sevarien was roaring. “For so many centuries, the nobility have been a plague upon Rhodaan! They call it taxation, but in truth, it was theft! They are a gang of robber barons and thieves, and they have stolen wealth, and property, and the hard-earned labour of our sweaty and dirt-stained hands….”
“Our?” Rhillian wondered sourly. Sevarien’s hands were pink, plump and pale, like the rest of him. She doubted he’d ever pulled a plough, or raised a barn, or milked a cow in his life.
“We demand that the remaining feudal lands be redistributed amongst those who know and work it best!” A roar from the crowd. “We demand equality!” Another roar. “We demand the abolition of false titles and noble privilege!” Again. “We demand an end to the domination of Council by the wealthy few!”
“And what are you going to replace it all with, you fucking fool?” Aisha said loudly, above the din. Rhillian spared Aisha a glance, and saw the anger. For all her tongues, Aisha rarely swore. But Aisha was Enoran, and she recalled what form the Enoran purges had taken. Now, she saw them repeated on the streets of Tracato.
“And we demand the final punishment of those traitors who have plotted and schemed to enrich themselves on the blood and treasure of our great and noble Rhodaani brotherhood!”
This last, Sevarien delivered with a sweeping gesture, that ended on Rhillian, as she walked toward the stage. Many Civid Sein came to their feet, chanting and yelling. Some Nasi-Keth joined them. On the stage behind Sevarien, the Tol’rhen’s other seniors were seated. Rhillian saw Kessligh, his chin in his hand. His expression was unreadable.
She climbed the steps, Aisha and Lieutenant Raine waiting below, and raised a hand to acknowledge the shouting. It amazed her that they should cheer for her. Perhaps a human might feel some emotional stirring and some common passion with the crowd. Rhillian stared out across the mob, and felt only an absence. She was serrin, and she had the vel’ennar. This was nothing. When the noise dimmed, she lowered her arm.
“You have come here for revolution,” she told them. “I see noevolution in the town. I see lawlessness, murder, rape, theft and thuggery. If it continues, I shall send the Steel to this camp, and to all other such camps across the city, and have you all killed. Thank you for your attention, and good day.”
She gestured to Kessligh, and he rose, in that stunned silence. Boos followed, as they moved from the stage, rising to a crescendo of yells and abuse. The Nasi-Keth drew weapons. Rhillian skipped off the stage amidst a rain of missiles, and walked with Kessligh to the kitchens, which were nearest.
“You’ll only hold them with threats of violence for so long,” Kessligh told her grimly. “After a while, they’ll call your bluff, and then you’ll really have to do it.”
“You think I wouldn’t?” Rhillian asked. Aisha and Lieutenant Raine followed them in, Aisha seating herself upon an abandoned cutting bench.
Kessligh leaned against another bench and exhaled hard. “This is fast spinning out of control. Again. You surely can’t say you’re surprised.”
“How many are still with you?” Rhillian asked, ignoring the barb. Kessligh’s stare lingered for a short moment. Unlike most, he never flinched beneath her gaze.
“Most of those not with the Civid Sein,” he replied, finally. “I have more Nasi-Keth than Sevarien, perhaps twice as many. But he has the country mobs. I suspect I’ll gain even more in this place shortly. There’ve been idealistic youngsters horrified at what they’ve seen, the last few days. Sevarien spins a grand and exciting tale of injustice and vengeful rebellion, but on the streets, it boils down to blood, rape and murder every time. I’ve been telling them so since I first arrived; only now do they see my point.”
“Even after what Sasha tried, they’ll still follow you?” Rhillian questioned warily. “Even most of those Nasi-Keth who do not love the Civid Sein have little love for the nobility. Very few nobility ever sent their children to study in the Tol’rhen. Sasha helped Lady Renine and Alfriedo escape, and you are not blamed for your uma’s actions?”
“People here know Sasha,” Kessligh said flatly. “They know she does as she will. I tell them I did not order it, and they believe me, because they know it is the truth. She has little interest in Lady Renine and her son, she was trying to save her sister. Whom you are still proposing to kill.”
“I have no say in the workings of the Justiciary,” Rhillian replied. Kessligh’s expression was statement enough that he did not believe her. “Do you condemn Sasha’s actions?”
“Seriously? In truth, she read my mind. Expulsion from Rhodaan was always the superior option for the Renines, and any other troublesome nobles. Sasha’s own father did that to her, you’ll recall. He’s been a fool of late, King Torvaal, but he’s been a wise man too, and sometimes that wisdom still shows. If he’d killed Sasha, all her supporters would have been mad. That makes for unpleasantness. You came here down Elesther Road. You’ve seen what I mean.”
“I haven’t killed any Renines yet.”
“And so I wait for it all to get worse when you do,” said Kessligh. “Yes, the Renines and all their allies were stupid. Yes, they are traitors, they collaborated with the enemies of Rhodaan in the hopes of regaining their old, feudal glory. But if you kill them, you lose the wealth of Tracato, and the only force to oppose the rage of the nobility is the Civid Sein. You need the Steel at the front, Rhillian, Sofy Lenayin’s wedding is happening, and the Army of Lenayin will not rest idle forever. The Steel cannot make a strong front against the Larosans and Lenays while Rhodaan continues to burn at their backs. My advice-if you recapture Lady Renine and Alfriedo, let them go. Send them to Sherdaine, or Petrodor. Exile will remove them from the scene, without so much of the bloodshed.”
“M’Lady, he’s right,” said Lieutenant Raine. “In truth, the Steel should have left by now. In their heartland, the nobility can defend themselves, the Civid Sein have done much damage about the outskirts, but if we allow the nobles to arm and gather-as we have not been allowing-then the Civid Sein will soon take grave losses, and decide that settlement is best, whatever their talk today of total revolution. But the nobility will not accept a settlement that means the death of the Renines. Send them to exile, it is the best solution.”
Rhillian gazed at the great ovens, black steel doors swung open, cold and empty. The air smelled of residual soot, and old vegetables. Then she nodded.
“If I can find them, I will.”
“Rhillian,” said Kessligh, drawing her full attention. “I understand that Sasha has violated the law, and will remain confined. See that she is not harmed. Nor her sister, nor Errollyn.”
Rhillian drew a deep breath. “As I said, the Justiciary’s independence is two centuries old. I cannot be seen to tamper, or I will lose much of what support I currently hold, even with the Steel. Rhodaani justice is a matter for the gods. I cannot be seen to overrule their judgement. The priests have been quiet until now, but if I lose the priesthood, we have Petrodor all over again.”
“I know,” Kessligh said simply. “I merely warn you, for your sake and mine. You know me to be hard, but rational. If something happens to Sasha, I can assure you my rationality shall be tested. You’ll be on the top of my list.” The grip upon his staff, Rhillian noted, was white knuckled. His voice and face betrayed little emotion, yet the man was wound as tightly as a spring. Close as he stood, Rhillian could not help but feel a certain alarm. “Just so you know,” Kessleigh said quietly.
They were returning to the Mahl’rhen when urgent word arrived in the form of a scout on horseback. Lieutenant Raine having returned to his unit, Rhillian and Aisha set off after the scout, their guard in pursuit. Deep into feudalist heartland they rode, as armed Steel stood aside, and the only others on the narrow, cobbled roads were armed nobility, in groups no larger than the proscribed five. Soon, Rhillian knew, given the size of the Civid Sein mobs, and the inability of the Steel to control them, she would have to give the order to allow the nobility to gather in whatever size force they liked. The nobility had good weapons, and good men. Then, it would be civil war.
Into a small cross street, between nondescript stone buildings halfway up the slope from the docks, there was a commotion of shouting men, wailing women, and armoured shields holding back the inconsolable crowd. They opened enough to allow Rhillian, Aisha and guards to pass, then closed once more. Rhillian dismounted, and entered through a door bashed off its hinges, then up steps to the first floor.
It was a simple room, unbefitting of nobility, perhaps, but then few of the feudalists of central Tracato were actually noble. A simple, wood-planked floor, some basic furnishings before the windows, and all now covered in the most appalling carnage. Bodies had been hacked, limbs removed, entrails strewn like depraved festival decorations. Rhillian had seen many such sights upon the battlefield, but somehow, the horror of this was far, far worse. This had been someone’s home. Blood upon a simple tabletop, and gore dripping down the front of a small bookshelf, was somehow indecent in a way that even a thousand dead and wounded soldiers upon green or ploughed fields had never quite managed.
She stepped over a woman’s body and saw a younger girl, a teenager, face down in her own blood and eyes wide, frozen in horror. Then the smaller child, a little boy, head partly severed from his…
Rhillian nearly retched. Nearly broke down and cried. She had steeled herself to do these terrible things, and see these terrible sights, because if she did not, this fate would one day befall the people and children of Saalshen. Someone had to, and the vel’ennar had determined that that someone should be her. But she had rarely despised humanity more, at any moment, than she did right then.
Then she saw the Lady Tathilde Renine. The face was contorted, a grotesque shape of mouth and protruding tongue, from the rope that strangled about her neck. The rope was tied over an exposed ceiling beam, the lady’s dress slashed and dripping blood, where men had cut her as she hung, and struggled, and kicked. Her once-beautiful eyes now beheld a dull finality.
Aisha saw the hanging body too, as she came in behind, and let out a small, sad sigh. “Oh no,” she said. “Now there’ll be trouble.”
Sasha knew something was wrong the moment the cell door squealed open. She shielded her eyes against the lantern’s glare, spying shapes that were not those of the regular Justiciary gaolers, but men with rough clothes and no armour. She tried to stand but could not raise beyond a crouch thanks to the manacles that bound her wrists, and then chained in turn to an iron ring at her feet. The man advancing on her was big, with bare arms and a nasty manner. This was going to hurt.
The first punch struck her in the side as she tensed, falling to her knees and covering, hoping to ride out the worst of it. Kicks thudded in as she covered her head with her arms, blindingly painful, but not so completely strange to a svaalverd warrior who had spent most of her youth being beaten with Kessligh’s practice stanch, and falling off horses. She hissed and exhaled hard as she needed to; hard breathing always helped her svaalverd exercises, and it helped to deal with the pain.
Finally, as she ached in a fire of new bruises, a key was taken to her chains, and the chain released. Perhaps she was to be set free, she thought, as the men dragged her stumbling from the cell. Perhaps something had happened, perhaps politics had demanded her release, or Kessligh had held a blade to someone’s neck-possibly Rhillian’s. Perhaps this punishment was only the final, spiteful gift of those determined to get their shots in while they could.
It was fear, Sasha decided, as they dragged her to the hanging chains. It was her own fear. Her eyes would not leave the row of implements on the tabletop, however hard she tried to drag them away. Her heart was hammering. She had long ago confronted the prospect of disfiguring wounds in battle. Such a thing would happen quickly, before she could think on it. This would be slow. She wanted to cry, to scream and beg, and the Lenay warrior in her soul hated herself for it.
The chain between her wrist manacles was linked over a hook, two blows to her midriff ceasing her attempt to struggle. That hook was pulled high with the rattle of a winch, and soon she was nearly dangling, booted toes barely touching the ground. The big man took a sharp knife off the table and stood before her examining it as a farmer might examine his blade before slaughtering a sheep. Sasha tried to kick him, but her ankle chains had been secured to a floor ring, and she only succeeded in thrashing.
The man was bald, with a large belly and thick arms. Another man was handsome, with shoulder-length dark hair and a goatee. His eyes examined her with flat curiosity, and his accent, when he spoke, was that of an educated man.
“Who ordered you to rescue Lady Renine?” he asked her. “Was it Kessligh Cronenverdt?”
Sasha swallowed hard, for a moment not trusting herself to speak. A Lenay warrior did not show fear. “It was my decision,” she said. “Kessligh was not consulted.”
The handsome man nodded to the big one, who inserted the blade into Sasha’s collar, and sliced the shirt neck to hem. He then walked around, and did the same behind, and tore the rest away. The light, serrin undershirt protected her modesty for a moment, but the big man cut that too, and left her topless. Perhaps they thought to humiliate her. Sasha had far worse concerns than that.
The big man then put the blade on the table, and punched her in the stomach. He was powerful, and the blow rocked her back in a jangle of chains, yet it was a relief. She was still too important for them to start cutting. Kessligh would kill them, and by far worse means than they might do to her. Kessligh led the majority of Tracato Nasi-Keth. Things were not that desperate yet.
Several blows later, and she half swung by her aching arms, struggling to breathe, reflecting that just because they weren’t about to start cutting bits off, it didn’t mean this was going to be anything other than hell. With her arms up, she had no way of defending herself. She just tensed hard, and hoped that her countless hours of training had built enough muscle to absorb the worst of it without permanent damage.
The handsome man asked her more questions. He wanted her to admit that she was a pawn of the feudalists, and that Kessligh, by association, was also a pawn. Probably, it occurred to her, Kessligh was not being helpful to the Civid Sein. He was caught between two groups of fanatics, each unwilling to admit the possibility of a third side. Holding the Nasi.th together, in the face of such one-eyed stupidity, would not be easy.
Soon her arms and shoulders began to hurt almost worse than her bruises. Her wrist manacles were agony, the chafing metal surely splitting the skin. Her boots were removed and her pants cut away, leaving her in only the thigh-length woollen underwear that she’d always favoured, good for both svaalverd and horsemanship. Strangely, they did not strip her completely naked. It seemed another line they were not prepared to cross. She wondered what was going on above ground that would make it so, and when that line would disappear. She answered the handsome man’s questions truthfully, in part because no other answer would help her, and also because it was not what he wanted to hear. She did not scream or yell in fury, or make threats. She knew, as surely the men did, that if she survived, and were given an opportunity in the future, she would kill them, their comrades, and possibly their families, no matter how they screamed and begged. She would be patient, and wait. If these men knew her intent, though, it was unlikely they would let her live.
Through a haze of pain, she heard the dungeon door open, and a new voice spoke. It was familiar, and she half twisted on her chains to see Reynold Hein, in an expensive dark shirt and elegant boots, the ginger remnants of his hair impeccably trimmed, as was his goatee. He addressed the handsome man calmly, and they spoke in Rhodaani.
She was not surprised to see the man smile, and make an exasperated expression to Reynold’s question. It seemed they were talking about her. Reynold explained himself. The handsome man gave a shrug and put a hand on Sasha’s side, trailing it down her hip to her thigh. Sasha did not waste energy resisting, and calmed herself with visions of the handsome man screaming in agony, her blade twisting in his guts. Then he walked away, heading for the door.
Reynold adjusted his shoulder bandoleer and strolled before her. “Perone is disappointed that I have limited his freedoms here,” he said. “Another woman of your looks might not have been so fortunate.” Sasha said nothing. “You have a pretty face-I told him I would not like to see it scarred.”
Sasha just looked at him, breathing hard, slowly twisting. It did not surprise her particularly that he should be capable of these things, nor that he could inflict them upon someone that he had at least occasionally, in the past, been friendly with.
“There is rather a mess outside,” Reynold continued. He lifted a waterskin from his hip, and took a sip. Only then did Sasha realise how badly she wanted a drink. “The Lady Tathilde Renine is dead. Somehow, word got out to our Rhodaani patriots of her hiding place, and they stormed it in force. The feudalists are now rather upset, as you might imagine, and the Lady Rhillian has abruptly refused to use the Steel to contain their gatherings, as she had been. Upwards of hundreds at a time are now roaming to the west of Ushaal Fortress, and the fighting is fierce. It is all the Steel and Mahl’rhen can do to contain the warfare, and the Nasi-Keth of course, those who remain with Kessligh, are not much use at keeping the peace.”
Sasha knew what he meant. The svaalverd, the ultimate offensive weapon, but useless for defending anything against mass attack. Those Nasi-Keth like Reynold, however, would be a deadly weapon against the feudalists. Slowly the picture was becoming clear to her.
“Thankfully,” Reynold went on, as easily as he had ever discusse politics over a cup of wine, “new militias of rural patriots have entered the city from the east, and gained control of the Justiciary. It does afford us some opportunities, with the prisoners currently held here. We can ask some questions that the Lady Rhillian, for example, might have found distasteful. The Justiciary is currently surrounded by several thousand patriots, and separated from feudal heartlands by the Ushal Fortress, so it would seem that your rescue appears unlikely, in the short term at least. Best that you cooperate with us now.”
“I’ve spoken nothing but the truth,” Sasha replied, her voice low and strained.
“Ah yes.” Reynold smiled indulgently. “A Lenay warrior’s honour. But truly, I do not care particularly if Kessligh ordered you to do what you did or not. I could just as easily invent some statement from you, it would serve as well…and probably those who support you would not believe it, precisely because they know I could have invented it.” He paused, appearing to expect her to question further. Sasha merely stared.
“No,” Reynold continued, “the reason for this interrogation is much more that the supporters of the revolution expect such things, of the revolution’s enemies. They ask what has been done to punish the traitorous Lenay Princess Nasi-Keth, and I say nothing, and they take it ill. Revolution is grievance, Sashandra.” He tightened his fist, earnestly. “It is grievance, tightly focused. Just as the svaalverd is energy, the mayen’rathal of the serrin philosophy of motion, tightly focused, and controlled. One cannot break the momentum of energy, any more than one can check the swing of a svaalverd strike. Not without losing that momentum, and that energy. Dissipating it.”
I’m being tortured to prove a point of philosophy, Sasha thought, somewhat drily despite the pain. That did not surprise her either. Kessligh had taught her too often of the nature of ideas, and their dangers.
“No, any information you could offer me would not serve the battle for Tracato, for that is well underway, and its path is now out of your hands or mine. But it would be remiss of me, as a Rhodaani patriot, not to ask you of the greater battle for the survival of Rhodaan. Our glorious Rhodaani Steel must defeat the Army of Lenayin in the field, or all is lost. I have asked you of Lenayin’s tactics before.”
“And I said you can go to hell,” Sasha retorted through gritted teeth.
“And,” said Reynold, holding up a finger, “you said that you did not know how a combined Army of Lenayin would choose to fight in the field. But come, you are a student of Lenay warfare, and your brother Koenyg will be in direct command. Surely a sister knows her brother.”
“I’ve hated him since I could walk,” Sasha snarled. “As he has hated me.”
“Hatred does not preclude knowledge. I know the pampered, thieving lords of Rhodaan all too well, with their snobbish ways and presumption of godly entitlement.” Reynold was a merchant’s son, Sasha recalled.
“Koenyg likes to attack naked,” Sasha told Reynold. “Great formations of Lenay warriors, with not a blade of grass to cover their arses. I’ve told him often of its ineffectiveness, but he does not listen.”
Reynold snorted. “You appe to think this a game. This is no game to me, Sashandra Lenayin. The survival of my nation is at stake.”
“Mine too.”
Reynold nodded to the bald man, who retreated to the furnace and pulled on a thick glove. Sasha’s heart began to race.
“Unlike Perone, I do not enjoy this, Sashandra,” said Reynold, his blue eyes deeply serious. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. Making revolution is far harder than making cake, it requires far more than the breaking of a few eggs.”
The bald man picked up a steel poker. Its end, resting within the coals, glowed bright orange. Sasha stared at it as the man approached and shook her head in shaking disbelief.
“Oh you’re dead,” she muttered. Her head felt as though it were about to burst, from the pounding in her ears. “I am going to so enjoy killing you.”
“Tell me something useful,” Reynold said reasonably, “and it need not be so.”
“You’re wrong,” said Sasha shakily. “I’m going to kill you regardless.”
The bald man waved the poker close, and Sasha flinched aside, desperately. The chains brought her swinging back, and that was when he laid it across her side.
Sasha screamed and thrashed. It hurt indescribably. The poker pulled away, but the pain did not go. It got worse, burning bone deep. She tried to lash out, reflexively, but only made herself swing some more.
“Tell me something useful, Sashandra. What state is the Lenay artillery in? About what proportion of the cavalry rides lowlands steeds, and what the native Lenay dussieh? What tactics has Prince Koenyg preferred in his previous, if limited Lenay campaigns? I have heard tales that the warriors of Isfayen province are particularly ferocious, shall Koenyg use them in the front, or in the reserve?”
“If you wait long enough,” Sasha gasped, “maybe one of them will fuck you with his spear!”
The poker was applied to her other side. Sasha had no shame in screaming. Screaming helped. When the screaming passed, she reverted to Tullamayne. “No sheth an sary, no sheth an sary, no sheth an sary.” Over and over, eyes squeezed shut, sweat drenching her body as her muscles trembled uncontrollably.
“I know a little Lenay,” said Reynold. “It means…‘blood on the steel,’ yes?”
“No sheth an sary, no sheth an sary.” From the speech of Aldrynoth, at the Battle of Myldar. Danyth of Rayen had killed his brother. Aldrynoth had sought revenge. “No herb shall heal, like blood on the steel.” She had never wanted love, nor sex, nor warmth, nor life itself, as badly as she wanted to kill Reynold Hein. It was a revelation to her.